


up against the wall like let's go, let's go

by brophigenia



Series: Pynch Week 2018 [2]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Basically Just Filth, Frottage, Indeterminate timeline, M/M, Matchmaker Gansey, Ogling, PWP, Pynch Week 2018, Resolved Sexual Tension, Tennis, Tennis!Ronan, plot what plot?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 09:53:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15410352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brophigenia/pseuds/brophigenia
Summary: “Listen,” Gansey said on a laugh, his eyes alight with mirth. In the summer sun, with his skin tanned dark everywhere it was exposed and his hair freshly cut, Gansey could take anyone’s breath away. “It won’t be what you’ve imagined, but it’ll be just as good.”(AKA, Ronan plays tennis, Adam is distracted.)





	up against the wall like let's go, let's go

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all should've known this was coming.

“Listen,” Gansey said on a laugh, his eyes alight with mirth. In the summer sun, with his skin tanned dark everywhere it was exposed and his hair freshly cut, Gansey could take  _ anyone’s  _ breath away. “It won’t be what you’ve imagined, but it’ll be just as good.” 

Adam doubted that- the thought of it was impossible, mindblowing,  _ hysterical.  _ So nonsensical that he was sure that Gansey was pulling his leg, even as they got out of the Pig and started across the perfectly-manicured grass towards a perfectly-designed chateau-styled building. The hand-carved sign read  _ Henrietta Sports Club;  _ everyone on the porch was over the age of sixty and wearing woven leather belts with their boat shoes. 

(Actually, they dressed exactly like Gansey, which made Adam’s mouth twitch a bit at the corners. He resolved to murmur a joke about it later to Ronan, and began mentally composing the wittiest rejoinder he could in preparation.) 

“Dicky!” One of the old men roared, and Adam couldn’t help his little huff of laughter, before he felt frozen under their attention. He was glad he hadn’t worn a tee shirt; Gansey had given him  _ some  _ idea of where they’d be going before he arrived in the Pig, and thusly Adam had dressed for the occasion in his own khakis and a thin short-sleeved button-down shirt. It was Colombia brand; he’d found it rummaging through bins at the Goodwill the next time over, furtive and ashamed to be there in the daylight when anyone from school could wander past. 

When they’d escaped the clutches of the blue-plate crowd mostly unscathed except for having to wincingly endure a few sly racially charged comments about the type of membership the club allowed  _ nowadays,  _ Gansey let loose a heavy sigh. 

“Ronan is so lucky he doesn’t have to deal with them,” he murmured, the closest thing to a disparaging remark Gansey would make in this kind of scenario, polite to a fault, and again Adam wanted to laugh at the thought of  _ Ronan  _ talking to those old men, glaring at them down his nose with Chainsaw perched on his shoulder. 

Surely not. 

Gansey waved amiably at the athletic-looking girl working the front desk. She chirruped  _ hey, Dick!  _ at him and didn’t ask to see any proof of membership; Adam chalked it up to another instance of the Gansey name being a skeleton key for American society. Gansey probably didn’t even have to carry his own goddamn library card. 

They kept walking, past the two Olympic-sized outdoor swimming pools, the golf cart shed, the croquet lawn. The sun above them was high and  _ hot.  _ If Gansey  _ was  _ pulling his leg, Adam mused, he was going to get his ass tossed into one of the large decorative fountains scattered elegantly around the walkways. 

Finally they came upon the tennis courts, and Adam’s mouth went dry so fast that it made him lightheaded. 

(And he knew Ronan was attractive; he  _ knew,  _ and he  _ knew  _ that Ronan thought  _ Adam  _ was attractive, right back. Ronan had symmetrical features and the kind of attitude that was attractive to people who didn’t believe that anyone would ever be genuinely interested in them for no reason; if Ronan deigned to  _ like  _ you, you knew it had to be for a  _ reason.)  _

This was… something else  _ entirely.  _

This was  _ Ronan Lynch  _ in tight white athletic shorts and a matching white polo, biceps  _ bulging  _ with every swing of his racquet. This was Ronan Lynch sweating so profusely from the effort and the heat that his shirt had gone entirely transparent and Adam was left to stare open-mouthed as each muscle in his back shifted,  _ roiled,  _ every line of his tattoo clear as day through the wet fabric. This was Ronan Lynch in goddamn  _ white tube socks  _ with his calves like fucking  _ baseballs,  _ and Adam had to sit down. Adam needed to  _ sit down,  _ and then  _ leave,  _ preferably  _ now.  _

He blinked and tried to stir himself out of the hazy fantasy land he’d gotten himself caught up in; Gansey was smiling beatifically, eyeing Ronan’s forecheck with a sportsman’s interest. He looked so ridiculously aristocratic that it only added to the surrealism of the moment. Ronan a fucking wet dream in tennis shorts and Gansey a statue carved to memorialize the endangered fragility and superiority of the upper-class and Adam, _ going out of his mind.  _

“You know, Adam,” Gansey said suddenly, in a voice that most closely resembled that of his old British professor friend, Malory. Very nearly  _ perky. _ It was disturbing. “I just remembered that I have a very important matter to attend to back on campus. Ronan will give you a ride home. If you’ll excuse me.” And then he was off, practically skipping, while Adam was left in an oversexed stupor behind him trying to overcome his  _ indignant rage  _ enough to voice his serious objections to the whole thing. Gansey disappeared through a hedge of expensively-tailored topiary, hurtling into it headlong like a long-ago explorer tumbling into the wilds of the Amazon. Adam half expected to hear a rousing shout of  _ tallyhoe!  _

“Parrish?” Ronan’s voice was  _ languid.  _ It was  _ relaxed.  _ It was worlds away from his usual harangued dramatics. He sounded  _ amused.  _ Adam swallowed thickly. He should’ve never listened to Gansey. He should’ve  _ never  _ even entertained the idea. Look where it had gotten him. “The fuck did Gansey go?”  

“I-”  _ think we’ve been set up,  _ Adam wanted to say but didn’t. Miserably, he continued. “Gansey had a meeting. He forgot. He said… can you… I need a ride home, when you’re done.” He wasn’t used to this, stumbling over his words. His words were all he had, some days. He was used to be able to spin a crafty tale, to save himself embarrassment.  _ Humiliation.  _

“Sure…” Ronan shrugged, and then cocked a grin. It was feral, with entirely too many teeth. Adam was too-aware of his thin khaki pants and how they  _ must  _ be revealing his wretched state. There was no way they  _ weren’t.  _ He wanted to  _ die.  _ “You care if I hit a few more, before we go?” It was shockingly considerate, which should’ve been a red flag right away. Adam later chalked up his acquiescence to a mixture of brain-addling lust, sunstroke, and dehydration. 

No sooner had Adam nodded than Ronan skinned off his shirt,  _ peeling  _ the soaked white cotton-poly blend from his flesh slowly enough that Adam was able to count each ab and rib as they appeared. 

Again, Adam prayed for the sweet release of death. 

Ronan went back to practicing his swing, only this time it was with added sound effects. Each time his racquet connected with the ball he  _ grunted,  _ subvocal and  _ savage,  _ like a wild animal, and Adam was going to  _ choke on his own saliva,  _ watching Ronan in all of his shirtless, sweating glory and having to listen to sounds that put him right in the mind of  _ sex,  _ plain and simple. 

It wasn’t like he’d never considered  _ it, _ before, late at night when he felt most comfortable dissecting his and Ronan’s relationship. It was mostly that he’d never had such a vividly technicolor  _ experience  _ to inform his imaginings, which were all loosely based on Ronan’s mouth and the naked curve of the back of his neck. 

Now there was the rest of Ronan, all six-foot-plus of  _ boxing, tennis-playing Irish brick shithouse.  _

It was terrible. Adam wanted to leave. 

It was  _ glorious.  _ Adam wanted to stay here forever. 

Ronan stopped suddenly, and then rolled his shoulders, groaning theatrically. “A little help here, Parrish?” He called, smile as sharp as broken glass. “Think I pulled a muscle. Help me rub it out?” It was  _ ridiculous.  _ Ronan was  _ taunting him.  _ Ronan  _ knew  _ what he was doing. 

“Fuck this,” Adam mumbled, and then he had his hands on Ronan’s sweat-slick skin, bearing him down onto the warm clay ground. Ronan yelped, the sound turning into a raucous laugh.  _ “God,  _ Lynch,” he swore. Everywhere he touched Ronan his hands slid away. It was  _ maddening.  _ Ronan kept  _ laughing,  _ and Adam kissed him to shut him up. 

He was so hard he was going cross-eyed every time Ronan’s front brushed up against his cock. “Just-  _ let me, _ ” he groaned, wrenching those thick,  _ slick  _ thighs apart so he could get between them, his knees scraping along the ground every time he rocked his hips down, grinding their cocks  _ together,  _ and fuck, how were they only just doing this  _ now?  _

It was objectively disgusting, rubbing off against each other fully clothed and soaked in sweat, probably getting incriminating sunburns, but Adam couldn’t bring himself to care. His orgasm was like boiling honey spreading out from the pit of his stomach, his vision whiting out and nothing but  _ Ronan Ronan Ronan,  _ who made one last vicious grind against his thigh and then sighed  _ Adam  _ so sweetly it was like he wasn’t even real. Adam had to pinch himself, silly in the afterglow, to be sure that he wasn’t dreaming. 

“Fuck,” Ronan mumbled into his neck, shaking with half-hysterical laughter. Adam moaned something that might’ve been  _ shush  _ or also may have been the key to unlocking the secrets of the Rosetta Stone. There’d be time to think about the implications of  _ this  _ later. For now, he was content to just lay here and  _ breathe.  _

“Fuck,” Ronan said again, urgently, jostling him. “Parrish, what time is it?” 

“Ugh,” Adam checked his wrist. “Three fifty-seven. Why?” 

“The Davenports are playing doubles at four.” Ronan said, his grin positively  _ wolfish.  _

**Author's Note:**

> follow me at brophigenia.tumblr.com


End file.
